THE 
ROCKING  HORSE 

BY 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


"They  swayed  about  upon  a  rocking  horse, 

And  thought  it  Pegasus." 

— JOHN  KEATS 


B 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DOHAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 
TO 

TOM  DALY 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

I  thank  the  following  for  permission  to  reprint 
these  verses:  Philadelphia  Evening  Public  Ledger, 
New  York  Times,  New  York  Sun,  New  York  Even- 
ing  Sun,  House  and  Garden,  The  Bookman,  Life, 
The  Smart  Set,  Collier's,  The  Century,  and  The 
Ladies'  Home  Journal. 

Philadelphia  C.  M. 

January,  1919. 


— Vll- 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  GRACE  BEFORE  WRITING       . xiii 

IN  THE  CITY 

THE  TRYST .....'....  17 

FROM  AN  OFFICE  WINDOW 19 

THE  FAT  LITTLE  PURSE 20 

THE  REFLECTION 22 

To  A  POST-OFFICE  INKWELL 23 

THE  BALLOON  PEDDLER 24 

THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY 25 

THE  ICE  WAGON 27 

AT  A  MOVIE  THEATRE 30 

SONNETS  IN  A  LODGING  HOUSE 32 

Do  You  EVER  FEEL  LIKE  GOD? 34 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE  (PRESS) 36 

GREEN  ESCAPE 37 

VESPER  SONG  FOR  COMMUTERS 39 

AT  HOME 

THE  SECRET 43 

DEDICATION  FOR  A  FIREPLACE 44 

ON  NAMING  A  HOUSE " 45 

REFUSING  You  IMMORTALITY 46 

LINES  FOR  AN  ECCENTRIC'S  BOOK-PLATE 47 

THE  CRIB       ...... •  .'     :     *  48 

THE  POET 50 

To  A  DISCARDED  MIRROR 51 

To  A  VERY  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 52 

FOR  A  BIRTHDAY 54 

— ix — 


CONTENTS 


»                                                _  ;  PAGE 

SMELLS 55 

SMELLS  (JUNIOR) 56 

MY  FAVORITE  FLOWERS 57 

THE  PLUMPUPPETS 58 

DANDY  DANDELION 60 

THE  OLD  TROUSERS 61 

GROWING  UP 63 

KISSING 64 

SONG  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 65 

LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 66 

AT  A  CHILD'S  BEDSIDE 68 

PARADISE  DEPRECATED 69 

A  HOLLOWE'EN  MEMORY 70 

No  ANSWER  EXPECTED 71 

AUTUMN  COLOURS 72 

THE  LAST  CRICKET 73 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 74 

MEMORIES 

LUSITANIA 77 

THE  BIRTHDAY  REVIEW 78 

MOONLIGHT 81 

READING  TERMINAL 82 

AT  A  NEWSPAPER  BULLETIN  BOARD 84 

THE  ENGINEER 86 

THE  ISLAND 88 

THE  TREES 90 

THE  TRUCE 91 

RUBBER  HEELS 

REQUIEM,  ON  DISCARDING  AN  OLD  SUIT 95 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  PAY-DAY 97 

AN  ECSTATIC  TRIBUTE 98 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  PROOFREADER  OF  THE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  BRITAN- 


NICA     . 

— x — 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

JOHN  J.  HARRISON 100 

BALLADE  OF  DROWSINESS 102 

THANKSGIVING  FOR  HAVING  OVERSLEPT 104 

BALLADE  OF  GETTING  ONE'S  FEET  WET      .                 .  105 

LINES  ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  NEW  SMOKING  CAB     .     .  107 

THE  ORPHAN  POEM 108 

GRACE  BEFORE  HOT  WEATHER 110 

KITH  AND  KIN Ill 

TEN  LITTLE  COCKTAILS 112 

WTHEN  SHAKESPEARE  LAUGHED      .........  113 

To  LUATH 114 

BALLADE  OF  AN  AMBROSIAL  EVENING 116 

THOUGHTS  ON  REACHING  LAND 118 

A  SYMPOSIUM 120 

A  BASEMENT  LOVE  SONG 122 

A  HYMN  OF  HATE  FOR  HAY  FEVER 123 

v  A  FREUDIAN  LULLABY 124 

SYNTHETIC  POEMS 125 

ABDICATION 127 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION     ....  128 


-XI- 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  WRITING 

This  is  a  sacrament,  I  think! 

Holding  the  bottle  toward  the  light, 
As  blue  as  lupin  gleams  the  ink: 

May  Truth  be  with  me  as  I  write ! 

That  small  dark  cistern  may  afford 
Reunion  with  some  vanished  friend, — 

And  with  this  ink  I  have  just  poured 
May  none  but  honest  words  be  penned! 


— Xlll — 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


•rf  ' 


THE  TRYST 

ACCORDING  to  tradition 
The  place  where  sweethearts  meet 
Is  meadowland  and  hillside, 

And  not  the  city  street. 
Love  lingers  when  you  say  it 

By  lake  and  moonlight  glow: 
The  poets  all  O.  K.  it- 
It  may  be  better  so ! 

And  yet  I  keep  my  trysting 

In  the  department  stores : 
I  always  wait  for  Emma 

At  the  revolving  doors. 
It  might  dismay  the  poets, 

And  yet  it's  wholly  true — » 
My  heart  leaps  when  I  know  it's 

My  Emma,  pushing  through! 

It  may  be  more  romantic 
By  brook  or  waterfall, 

—17— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  TRYST— (continued) 


Yet  better  meet  on  pavements 
Than  never  meet  at  all: 

I  want  no  moon  beguiling, 
No  dark  and  bouldered  shore, 

When  I  see  Emma  smiling 

And  twirling  through  the  door! 


—18— 


IN  THE  CITY 


FROM  AN  OFFICE  WINDOW 

(Madison  Square,  New  York  City) 

WHO  knows  the  heart's  most  secret  aisle 
Where  Beauty  her  strange  message  brings? 
She  turns  our  eyes  from  desk  and  file 
To  gaze  on  new- revealed  things. 

In  unsuspected  place  and  time 

Her  mystic  profile  shakes   and   thrills; 

The  humblest  hear  her  great  bells  chime 
Grey  streets   are  lit  with  daffodils! 

Who  knows  what  sudden  bliss   and  awe, 
WThat  comfort,  and  what  courage  new, 

Some  typist  gained  when  first  she  saw 
Diana,  poised  against  the  blue! 


—19— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  FAT  LITTLE  PURSE 

ON  Saturdays,  after  the  baby 
Is  bathed,  fed,  and  sleeping  serene, 
His  mother,  as  quickly  as  may  be, 
Arranges  the  household  routine. 
She  rapidly  makes  herself  pretty 

And  leaves  the  young  limb  with  his  nurse. 
Then  gaily  she  starts  for  the  city, 
And  with  her  the  fat  little  purse. 


She  trips  through  the  crowd  at  the  station, 

To  the  rendezvous  spot  where  we  meet, 
And  keeping  her  eyes  from  temptation, 

She  avoids  the  most  windowy  street ! 
She  is  off  for  the  Weekly  Adventure; 

To  her  comrade  for  better  and  worse 
She    says,    "Never  mind,    when    you've    spent 
your 

Last  bit,  here's  the  fat  little  purse." 


Apart,  in  her  thrifty  exchequer, 

She  has  hidden  what  must  not  be  spent: 

Enough  for  the  butcher  and  baker, 

Katie's  wages,  and  milkman,  and  rent ; 

—20— 


IN  THE  CITY 


THE  FAT  LITTLE  PURSE— (continued) 

But  the  rest  of  her  brave  little  treasure 
She  is  gleeful  and  prompt  to  disburse — • 

What  a  richness  of  innocent  pleasure 
Can  come  from  her  fat  little  purse ! 

But  either  by  giving  or  buying, 

The  little  purse  does  not  stay  fat — 
Perhaps  it's  a  ragged  child  crying, 

Perhaps  it's  a  "pert  little  hat." 
And  the  bonny  brown  eyes  that  were  brightened 

By  pleasures  so  quaint  and  diverse, 
Look  up  at  me,  wistful  and  frightened, 

To  see  such  a  thin  little  purse. 

The  wisest  of  all  financiering 

Is  that  which  is  done  by  our  wives : 
By  some  little  known  profiteering 

They  add  twos  and  twos  and  make  fives; 
And,  husband,  if  you  would  be  learning 

The  secret  of  thrift,  it  is  terse: 
Invest  the  great  part  of  your  earning! 

In  her  little,  fat  little  purse. 


—21— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  REFLECTION 

1HAVE  not  heard  her  voice,  nor  seen  her  face, 
Nor  touched  her  hand; 
And  yet  some  echo  of  her  woman's  grace 
I  understand. 

I  have  no  picture  of  her  lovelihood, 

Her  smile,  her  tint; 
But  that  she  is  both  beautiful  and  good 

I  have  true  hint. 

In  all  that  my  friend  thinks  and  says,  I  see 

"  Her  mirror  true; 

His  thought  of  her  is  gentle;  she  must  be 
All  gentle  too. 

In  all  his  grief  or  laughter,  work  or  play, 

Each  mood  and  whim, 
How  brave  and  tender,  day  by  common  day, 

She  speaks  through  him! 

'<* 

Therefore  I  say  I  know  her,  be  her  face 

Or  dark  or  fair — 
For  when  he  shows  his  heart's  most  secret  place 

I  see  her  there! 

—22— 


IN  THE  CITY 


TO  A  POST-OFFICE  INKWELL 

HOW  many  humble  hearts  have  dipped 
In  you,  and  scrawled  their  manuscript! 
Have  shared  their  secrets,  told  their  cares, 
Their  curious  and  quaint  affairs! 

Your  pool  of  ink,  your  scratchy  pen, 
Have  moved  the  lives  of  unborn  men, 
And  watched  young  people,  breathing  hard, 
Put  Heaven  on  a  postal  card. 


—23— 


- 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  BALLOON  PEDDLER 

WHO  is  the  man  on  Chestnut  street 
With  coloured  toy  balloons? 
I  see  him  with  his  airy  freight 

On  sunny  afternoons — 
A  peddler  of  such  lovely  goods ! 

The  heart  leaps  to  behold 
His  mass  of  bubbles,  red  and  green 
And  blue  and  pink  and  gold. 

For  sure  that  noble  peddler  man 

Hath  antic  merchandise: 
His  toys  that  float  and  swim  in  air 

Attract  my  eager  eyes. 
Perhaps  he  is  a  changeling  prince 

Bewitched  through  magic  moons 
To  tempt  us  solemn  busy  folk 

With  meaningless   balloons. 

Beware,  oh,  valiant  merchantman, 

Tread  cautious  on  the  pave! 
Lest  some  day  come  some  realist, 

Some  haggard  soul  and  grave, 
A  puritan   efficientist 

Who  deems  thy  toys  a  sin — 
He'll  stalk  thee  madly  from  behind 

And  prick  them  with  a  pin ! 
-24— 


IN  THE  CITY 


THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY 

NO  MALORY  of  old  romance, 
No  Crusoe  tale,  it  seems  to  me, 
Can  equal  in  rich  circumstance 
This   telephone  directory. 

No  ballad  of  fair  ladies'  eyes, 

No  legend  of  proud  knights  and  dames, 
Can  fill  me  with  such  bright  surmis 

As  this  great  book  of  numbered  names ! 

How  many  hearts  and  lives  unknown, 
Rare  damsels  pining  for  a  squire, 

Are  waiting  for  the  telephone 

To  ring,  and  call  them  to  the  wire. 

Some  wait  to  hear  a  loved  voice  say 
The  news  they  will  rejoice  to  know 

At  Rome  2637  J 

Or  Marathon  1450! 

And  some,  perhaps,  are  stung  with  fear 
And  answer  with  reluctant  tread: 

The  message  they  expect  to  hear 
Means  life  or  death  or  daily  bread. 

—25— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY— (continued) 

A  million  hearts  here  wait  our  call, 
All  naked  to  our  distant  speech — > 

I  wish  that  I  could  ring  them  all 

And  have  some  welcome  news  for  each ! 


—26— 


IN  THE  CITY 


THE  ICE  WAGON 

I'D  like  to  split  the  sky  that  roofs  us  down, 
Break  through  the  crystal  lid  of  upper  air, 
And  tap  the  cool  still  reservoirs  of  heaven. 
I'd  empty  all  those  unseen  lakes  of  freshness 
Down  some  vast  funnel,  through  our  stifled  streets. 

I'd  like  to  pump  away  the  grit,  the  dust, 
Raw  dazzle  of  the  sun  on  garbage  piles, 
The  droning  troops  of  flies,  sharp  bitter  smells, 
And  gush  that  bright  sweet  flood  of  unused  air 
Down  every  alley  where  the  children  gasp. 

And  then  I'd  take  a  fleet  of  ice  wagons — 
Big  yellow  creaking  carts,  drawn  by  wet  horses, — 
And  drive  them  rumbling  through  the  blazing  slums. 
In  every  wagon  would  be  blocks  of  coldness, 
Pale,  gleaming  cubes  of  ice,  all  green  and  silver, 
With  inner  veins   and  patterns,  white  and  frosty; 
Great   lumps    of   chill  would  drip  and   steam   and 

shimmer, 
And  spark  like  rainbows  in  their  little  fractures. 

And  where  my  wagons  stood  there  would  be  puddles, 
A  wetness  and  a  sparkle  and  a  coolness. 

—27— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  ICE  WAGON— (continued) 

My  friends  and  I  would  chop  and  splinter  open 
The  blocks  of  ice.     Bare  feet  would  soon  come  pat 
tering, 

And  some  would  wrap  it  up  in  Sunday  papers, 
And  some  would  stagger  home  with  it  in  baskets, 
And  some  would  be  too  gay  for  aught  but  sucking, 
Licking,  crunching  those  fast  melting  pebbles, 
Gulping  as  they  slipped  down  unexpected — 
Laughing  to  perceive  that  secret  numbness 
Amid  their  small  hot  persons! 


At  every  stop  would  be  at  least  one  urchin 
Would  take  a  piece  to  cool  the  sweating  horses 
And  hold  it  up  against  their  silky  noses — 
And  they  would  start,  and  then  decide  they  liked  it. 

Down  all  the  sun-cursed  byways  of  the  town 

Our  wagons  would  be  trailed  by  grimy  tots, 

Their  ragged  shirts  half  off  them  with  excitement! 

Dabbling  toes  and  fingers  in  our  leakage, 

A  lucky  few  up  sitting  with  the  driver, 

All  clambering  and  stretching  grey-pink  palms. 

And  by  the  time  the  wagons  were  all  empty 
Our  arms  and  shoulders  would  be  lame  with  chopping, 
Our  backs  and  thighs  pain-shot,  our  fingers  frozen. 
But  how  we  would  recall  those  eager  faces, 
Red  thirsty  tongues  with  ice-chips  sliding  on  them, 
—28— 


IN  THE  CITY 


THE  ICE  WAGON— (continued) 

The  pinched  white  cheeks,  and  their  pathetic  glad 
ness. 

Then  we  would  know  that  arms  were  made  for  ach 
ing — 

I  wish  to  God  that  I  could  go  to-morrow! 


—29— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


AT  A  MOVIE  THEATRE 

HOW  well  he  spoke  who  coined  the  phrase 
The  picture  palace!     Aye,  in  sooth 
A  palace,  where  men's  weary  days 

Are  crowned  with  kingliness  of  youth. 

Strange  palace!     Crowded,  airless,  dim, 

Where  toes  are  trod  and  strained  eyes  smart, 

We  watch  a  wand  of  brightness  limn 
The  old  heroics  of  the  heart. 

Romance  again  hath  us  in  thrall 

And  Love  is  sweet  and  always  true, 

And  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall 

Hands  clasp — as  they  were  meant  to  do. 

Remote  from  peevish  joys  and  ills 

Our  souls,  pro  tern,  are  purged  and  free: 

We  see  the  sun  on  western  hills, 
The  crumbling  tumult  of  the  sea. 

We  are  the  blond  that  maidens  crave, 
Well  balanced  at  a  dozen  banks; 

By  sleight  of  hand  we  haste  to  save 
A  brown-eyed  life,  nor  stay  for  thanks ! 

—30— 


IN  THE  CITY 


AT  A  MOVIE  THEATRE— (continued) 

Alas,  perhaps  our  instinct  feels 

Life  is  not  all  it  might  have  been, 

So  we  applaud  fantastic  reels 
Of  shadow,  cast  upon  a  screen! 


—31— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


SONNETS  IN  A  LODGING  HOUSE 


EACH  morn  she  crackles  upward,  tread  by  tread, 
All  apprehensive  of  some  hideous  sight: 
Perhaps  the  Fourth  Floor  Back,  who  reads  in  bed, 

Forgot  his  gas  and  let  it  burn  all  night — 
The  Sweet  Young  Thing  who  has  the  middle  room, 

She  much  suspects :  for  once  some  ink  was  spilled, 
And  then  the  plumber,  in  an  hour  of  gloom, 

Found  all  the  bathroom  pipes  with  tea-leaves  filled. 

No  League  of  Nations  scheme  can  make  her  gay — 
She  knows  the  rank  duplicity  of  man; 

Some  folks  expect  clean  towels  every  day, 
They'll  get  away  with  murder  if  they  can! 

She  tacks  a  card  (alas,  few  roomers  mind  it) 

Pleat e  leave  the  tub  as  you  would  wish  to  find  it! 


—32— 


IN  THE  CITY 


SONNETS  IN  A  LODGING  HOUSE— (continued) 


Men  lodgers  are  the  best,  the  Mrs.  said: 

They  don't  use  my  gas  jets  to  fry  sardines, 

They  don't  leave  red-hot  irons  on  the  spread, 

They're  out  all  morning,  when  a  body  cleans. 

A  man  ain't  so  secretive,  never  cares 

What  kind  of  private  papers  he  leaves  lay, 

So  I  can  get  a  line  on  his  affairs 

And  dope  out  whether  he  is  likely  pay. 

But  women!     Say,  they  surely  get  my  bug! 

They  stop  their  keyholes  up  with  chewing  gum, 

Spill  grease,   and  hide  the  damage   with  the   rug, 

And  fry  marshmallows  when  their  callers  come. 

They  always  are  behindhand  with  their  rents — 

Take  my  advice  and  let  your  rooms  to  gents! 


—33— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


DO  YOU  EVER  FEEL  LIKE  GOD? 

ACROSS  the  court  there  rises  the  back  wall 
Of  the  Magna  Carta  Apartments. 
The  other  evening  the  people  in  the  apartment  op 
posite 

Had  forgotten  to  draw  their  curtains. 
I  could  see  them  dining:  the  well-blanched  cloth, 
The  silver  and  glass,  the  crystal  water  jug, 
The  meat  and  vegetables ;  and  their  clean  pink  hands 
Outstretched  in  busy  gesture. 

It  was  pleasant  to  watch  them,  they  were  so  human ; 
So  gay,  innocent,  unconscious  of  scrutiny. 
They  were  four:  an  elderly  couple, 
A  young  man,  and  a  girl — with  lovely  shoulders 
Mellow  in  the  glow  of  the  lamp. 
They  were  sitting  over  coffee,  and  I  could  see  their 
hands  talking. 

At  last  the  older  two  left  the  room. 

The  boy  and  girl  looked  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

Like  a  flash,  they  leaned  and  kissed. 

Good  old  human  race  that  keeps  on  multiplying! 
A  little  later  I  went  down  the  street  to  the  movies, 
—34— 


IN  THE  CITY 


DO  YOU  EVER  FEEL  LIKE  GOD  ?— (continued) 

An3  there  I  saw  all  four,  laughing  and  joking  to 
gether. 

And  as  I  watched  them  I  felt  like  God — = 
Benevolent,  all-knowing,  and  tender. 


—35— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE  (PRESS) 

ABOUT   these   roaring   cylinders 
Where  leaping  words  and  paper  mate, 
A  sudden  glory  moves  and  stirs — 
An  inky  cataract  in  spate! 

What  voice  for  falsehood  or  for  truth, 
What  hearts  attentive  to  be  stirred — 

How  dimly  understood,  in  sooth, 
The  power  of  the  printed  word! 

These  flashing  webs  and  cogs  of  steel 
Have   shaken   empires,   routed  kings, 

Yet  never  turn  too  fast  to  feel 
The  tragedies  of  humble  things. 

O  words,  be  strict  in  honesty, 
Be  just  and  simple  and  serene; 

O   rhymes,  sing  true,  or  you  will  be 
Unworthy  of  this  great  machine! 


—36— 


IN  THE  CITY 


GREEN  ESCAPE 

AT  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
On  a  hot  September  day, 
I  began  to  dream  of  a  highland  stream 

And  a  frostbit  russet  tree ; 
Of  the  swashing  dip  of  a  clipper  ship 

(White  canvas  wet  with  spray) 
And  the  swirling  green  and  milk-foam  clean 
Along  her  canted  lee. 

I  heard  the  quick   staccato  click 

Of  the  typist's  pounding  keys, 
And  I  had  to  brood  of  a  wind  more  rude 

Than  that  by  a  motor  fanned — 
And  I  lay  inert  in  a  flannel  shirt 

To  watch  the  rhyming  seas 
Deploy  and  fall  in  a  silver  sprawl 

On  a  beach  of  sun-blanched  sand. 

There  is  no  desk  shall  tame  my  lust 

For  hills  and  windy  skies ; 
My  secret  hope  of  the  sea's  blue  slope 

No  clerkly  task  shaU  dull; 
And  though  I  print  no  echoed  hint 

Of  adventures  I  devise, 

—37— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


GREEN  ESCAPE— (continued) 

My  eyes  still  pine  for  the  comely  line 
Of  an  outbound  vessel's  hull. 

When  I  elope  with  an  autumn  day 

And  make  my  green  escape, 
I'll  leave  my  pen  to  tamer  men 

Who  have  more  docile  souls; 
For  forest  aisles  and  office  files 

Have  a  very  different  shape, 
And  it's  hard  to  woo  the  ocean  blue 

In  a  row  of  pigeon  holes! 


—88— 


IN  THE  CITY 


VESPER  SONG  FOR  COMMUTERS 

(Instead  of  "Marathon,"  the  commuter  may  substi 
tute  the  name  of  his  favorite  suburb) 

r  I  iHE  stars  are  kind  to  Marathon, 

^       How  low,  how  close,  they  lean! 
They  jostle  one  another 
And  do  their  best  to  please — 
Indeed,  they  are  so  neighbourly 
That  in  the  twilight  green 
One  reaches  out  to  pick  them 
Behind  the  poplar  trees. 

The  stars  are  kind  to  Marathon, 

And  one  particular 

Bright  planet  (which  is  Vesper) 

Most  lucid  and  serene, 

Is  waiting  by  the  railway  bridge, 

The  Good  Commuter's  Star, 

The  Star  of  Wise  Men  coming  home 

On  time,  at  6:15! 


—39— 


AT  HOME 


AT  HOME 


THE  SECRET 

IT  was  the  House  of  Quietness 
To  which  I  came  at  dusk; 
The  garth  was  lit  with  roses 
And  heavy  with  their  musk. 

The  tremulous  tall  poplar  trees 
Stood  whispering  around, 

The  gentle  flicker  of  their  plumes 
More  quiet  than  no  sound. 

And  as  I  wondered  at  the  door 
What  magic  might  be  there, 

The  Lady  of  Sweet  Silences 
Came  softly  down  the  stair. 


43 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


DEDICATION  FOR  A  FIREPLACE 

THIS  hearth  was  built  for  thy  delight, 
For  thee  the  logs  were  sawn, 
For  thee  the  largest  chair,  at  night, 
Is  to  the  chimney  drawn. 

For  thee,  dear  lass,  the  match  was  lit 

To  yield  the  ruddy  blaze — 
May  Jack  Frost  give  us  joy  of  it 

For  many,  many  days. 


AT  HOME 


ON  NAMING  A  HOUSE 


w 


HEN  I  a  householder  became 
I  had  to  give  my  house  a  name. 


I  thought  I'd  call  it  "Poplar  Trees," 
Or  "Widdershins"  or  "Velvet  Bees," 

Or  "Just  Beneath  a  Star." 
I    thought    of    "House    Where    Plumbings 

Freeze," 

Or  "As  You  Like  It,"  "If  You  Please," 
Or  "Nicotine"  or  "Bread  and  Cheese," 

"Full  Moon"  or  "Doors  Ajar." 

But  still  I  sought  some  subtle  charm, 
Some  rune  to  guard  my  roof  from  harm 

And  keep  the  devil  far; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  saved! 
I  had  my  letter-heads  engraved 

proton  Cpetf 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


REFUSING  YOU  IMMORTALITY 

IF  I  should  tell,  unstinted, 
Your  beauty  and  your  grace, 
All  future  lads   would  whisper 

Traditions  of  your  face; 
If  I  made  public  tumult 

Your  mirth,  your  queenly  state, 
Posterity  would  grumble 
That  it  was  born  too  late. 

I  will  not  frame  your  beauty 

In  bright  undying  phrase, 
Nor  blaze  it  as  a  legend 

For  unborn  men  to  praise — 
For  why  should  future  lovers 

Be  saddened  and  depressed? 
Deluded,  let  them  fancy 

Their  own  girls  loveliest! 


AT  HOME 


LINES  FOR  AN  ECCENTRIC'S 
BOOK  PLATE 

TO  use  my  books  all  friends  are  bid 
My  shelves  are  open  for  'em ; 
And  in  each  one,  as  Grolier  did, 
I  write  Et  Amicorum. 

All  lovely  things  in  truth  belong 
To  him  who  best  employs  them ; 

The  house,  the  picture  and  the  song, 
Are  his  who  most  enjoys  them. 

Perhaps  this  book  holds  precious  lore, 
And  you  may  best  discern  it. 

If  you  appreciate  it  more 
Than  I — why  don't  return  it ! 


—47— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  CRIB 

1   SOUGHT  immortality 
Here  and  there — 
I  sent  my  rockets 

Into  the  air : 
I  gave  my  name 

A  hostage  to  ink; 
I  dined  a  critic 

And  bought  him  drink. 

I  spurned  the  weariness 

Of  the  flesh; 
Denied  fatigue 

And  began  afresh — • 
If  men  knew  all, 

How  they  would  laugh! 
I  even  planned 

My  epitaph.  .  .  . 

And  then  one  night 

When  the  dusk  was  thin 

I  heard  the  nursery 
Rites  begin : 

I  heard  the  tender 

Soothings  said 
—48— 


AT  HOME 


THE  CRIB — (continued) 


Over  a  crib,  and 
A  small  sweet  head. 

tThen  in  a  flash 
It  came  to  me 

That  there  was  my 
Immortality ! 


—49— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  POET 

r  1 1HE  barren  music  of  a  word  or  phrase, 
X        The  futile  arts  of  syllable  and  stress, 
He  sought.     The  poetry  of  common  days 
He  did  not  guess. 

The  simplest,  sweetest  rhythms  life  affords— 
Unselfish  love,  true  effort  truly  done, 

The  tender  themes  that  underlie  all  words- 
He  knew  not  one. 

The  human  cadence  and  the  subtle  chime 

Of  little  laughters,  home  and  child  and  wife, 

He  knew  not.     Artist  merely  in  his  rhyme, 
Not  in  his  life. 


—50— 


AT  HOME 


TO  A  DISCARDED  MIRROR 


isvliz  IIJOY  sio^ad  fazBlg  .HA  3 
;iifid  isd  bnsJ  oJ  baau  ybsl  yM 

ni  ozib  iuoy  HOIBSE  I  Jay  bnA 
isd  *k>  wobfidz  smoz  bnft  oT 


bnB  qssb  ,oi^Bm  IUOY  Jdguodf  I 
;blod  noijoaftai  iBsb  amoz  Hila  JdgiM    ' 
,9lidw  aiabli/oda  10  89^3*^0  inil^g  9rno3 
.bio  to  9iow  adz  znwo   1o  d8fift  arno8 


IIB091  Ilita  teum  bnuoi  bsdailoq  ii/oY 
•wori2  9>IiI  >lo9n  adl  fao£ 

J!BW  ylsnol  iuoy  no 
gnol  IJOY  baau 


—51— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

MY  child,  what  painful  vistas  are  before  you! 
What  years  of  youthful  ills  and  pangs  and 

bumps — 
Indignities   from   aunts  who   "just  adore"  you, 

And  chicken-pox  and  measles,  croup  and  mumps ! 
I  don't  wish  to  dismay  you, — it's  not  fair  to, 

Promoted  now  from  bassinet  to  crib, — 
But,  O  my  babe,  what  troubles  flesh  is  heir  to 
Since  God  first  made  so  free  with  Adam's  rib! 

Laboriously  you  will  proceed  with  teething; 

When   teeth   are   here,   you'll   meet   the  dentist's 

chair; 

They'll  teach  you  ways  of  walking,  eating,  breath 
ing, 

That  stoves  are  hot,  and  how  to  brush  your  hair ; 
And  so,  my  poor,  undaunted  little  stripling, 

By  bruises,  tears,  and  trousers  you  will  grow, 
And,  borrowing  a  leaf  from  Mr.  Kipling, 

I'll  wish  you  luck,  and  moralise  you  so: 

If  you  can  think  up  seven  thousand  methods 
Of  giving  cooks  and  parents  heart  disease; 

Can  rifle  pantry-shelves,  and  then  give  death  odds 
By  water,  fire,  and  falling  out  of  trees ; 
—52— 


AT  HOME 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN— (continued) 

If  you  can  fill  your  every  boyish  minute 

With  sixty  seconds'  worth  of  mischief  done, 

Yours  is  the  house  and  everything  that's  in  it, 
And,  which  is  more,  you'll  be  your  father's  son ! 


—53— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


FOR  A  BIRTHDAY 

AT  TWO  years  old  the  world  he  sees 
Must  seem  expressly  made  to  please ! 
Such   new-found   words   and   games   to   try, 
Such  sudden  mirth,  he  knows  not  why, 
So  many  curiosities ! 

As  life  about  him,  by  degrees 
Discloses  all  its  pageantries 
He  watches  with  approval  shy 
At  two  years  old. 

With  wonders  tired  he  takes  his  ease 
At  dusk,  upon  his  mother's  knees: 
A  little  laugh,  a  little  cry, 
Put  toys  to  bed,  then  "seepy-bye" — 
The  world  is  made  of  such  as  these 
At  two  years  old. 


—54— 


AT  HOME 


SMELLS 

WHY  is  it  that  the  poets  tell 
So  little  of  the  sense  of  smeU? 
These  are  the  odours  I  love  well: 

The  smell  of  coffee  freshly  ground; 
Or  rich  plum  pudding,  holly  crowned; 
Or  onions  fried  and  deeply  browned. 

The  fragrance  of  a  fumy  pipe; 
The  smell  of  apples,  newly  ripe; 
And  printers'  ink  on  leaden  type. 

Woods  by  moonlight  in  September 
Breathe  most  sweet;  and  I  remember 
Many  a  smoky  camp-fire  ember. 

Camphor,  turpentine,  and  tea, 
The  balsam  of  a  Christmas  tree, 
These  are  whiffs  of  gramarye.  .  .  . 
A  ship  smells  best  of  all  to  me! 


-55— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


SMELLS  (JUNIOR) 

MY  Daddy  smells  like  tobacco  and  books, 
Mother,  like  lavender  and  listerine; 
Uncle  John  carries  a  whiff  of  cigars, 

Nannie  smells  starchy  and  soapy  and  clean. 

Shandy,  my  dog,  has  a  smell  of  his  own 

(When  he's  been  out  in  the  rain  he  smells  most)  ; 

But  Katie,  the  cook,  is  more  splendid  than  all — 
She  smells  exactly  like  hot  buttered  toast! 


—56— 


AT  HOME 


MY  FAVOURITE  FLOWERS 

THE  yellow  orchid  why  discuss, 
When  you  can  eat  asparagus  ! 
What  stained-glass  window  could  repeat 
The  red-veined  leafage  of  the  beet? 

What  delicately  mottled  green 
Is  in  the  humble,  honest  bean, 
And  what  a  balm  for  sin  and  grief 
The  crisp  and  curly  lettuce  leaf! 

The  corn,  in  green,  translucent  files, 
Shimmers  like  cathedral  aisles, 
The  cabbage  that  the  frost  has  touched 
Is  like  a  pigeon's  throat  unsmutched. 

An  onion,  if  you  hold  your  nose, 
Is  marvellous  as  any  rose! 


—57— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  PLUMPUPPETS 

WHEN  little  heads  weary  have  gone  to  their 
bed, 
When  all  the  good  nights  and  the  prayers  have  been 

said, 

Of  all  the  good  fairies  that  send  bairns  to  rest 
The  little  Plumpuppets  are  those  I  love  best. 

//  your  pillow  is  lumpy,  or  hot,  thm  and  flat, 
The  little  Plumpuppets  know  just  what  they're  at; 
They  plump  up  the  pittow,  all  soft,  cool  and  fat — 
The  little  Plumpuppets  plump-up  it! 

The  little  Plumpuppets   are   fairies   of  beds: 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch  sleepy  heads ; 
They  turn  down  the  sheets  and  they  tuck  you  in 

tight, 
And  they  dance  on  your  pillow  to  wish  you  good 

night ! 

No  matter  what  troubles  have  bothered  the  day, 
Though  your  doll  broke  her  arm  or  the  pup  ran 

away; 
Though  your  handies  are  black  with  the  ink  that 

was  spilt — 
Plumpuppets  are  waiting  in  blanket  and  quilt. 

—58— 


AT  HOME 


THE  PLUMPUPPETS— (continued) 

//  your  pillow  is  lumpy,  or  hot,  thm  and  flat, 
The  little  Plumpuppets  know  just  what  they're  at; 
They  plump  up  the  pillow,  all  soft,  cool  and  fat — 
The  Uttle  Plumpuppets  plump-up  it! 


—59— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


DANDY  DANDELION 

WHEN  Dandy  Dandelion  wakes 
And  combs  his  yellow  hair, 
The  ant  his  cup  of  dewdrop  takes 

And  sets  his  bed  to  air; 
The  worm  hides  in  a  quilt  of  dirt 

To  keep  the  thrush  away, 
The  beetle  dons  his  pansy  shirt— 
They  know  that  it  is  day ! 

And  caterpillars  haste  to  milk 

The  cowslips  in  the  grass; 
The  spider,  in  his  web  of  silk, 

Looks  out  for  flies  that  pass. 
These  humble  people  leap  from  bed, 

They  know  the  night  is  done: 
When  Dandy  spreads  his  golden  head 

They  think  he  is  the  sun! 

Dear  Dandy  truly  does  not  smell 

As  sweet  as  some  bouquets ; 
No  florist  gathers  him  to  sell, 

He  withers  in  a  vase; 
Yet  in  the  grass  he's  emperor, 

And  lord  of  high  renown ; 
And  grateful  little  folk  adore 

His  bright  and  shining  crown. 
—60— 


AT  HOME 


THE  OLD  TROUSERS 

WHEN  Daddy  comes  home  from  the  office 
Then  Sarah  and  Peter  and  John 
Go  hunt  out  the  old  pair  of  trousers 

And  beg  him  to  hurry  them  on! 
Those   ancient   remarkable   garments 

Are  hung  on  the  hall  cupboard  door; 
Their  use  is  not  ended,  as  they  are  intended 

For  romps  on  the  nursery  floor. 
The  raggy  old  trousers,  the  baggy  old  trousers, 

That  romp  on  the  nursery  floor. 

When  Daddy  lies  down  he's  enormous- 
He  is  such  a  mountainous  man! 

We  bustle  and  hustle  and  tussle 
And  climb  to  the  top  if  we  can. 

But  then  he  rears  up  like  a  grizzly, 
And  tumbles  us  off  with  a  roar, 

And  so  far  below  him  we  hardly  would  know  him, 
Down  there  on  the  nursery  floor, 

If  it  weren't  for  the  trousers,  the  jolly  old  trousers, 
That  romp  on  the  nursery  floor. 

Dad  thinks  that  those  trousers  descended 
From  some  very  old  patriarch; 

—61— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  OLD  TROUSERS— (continued) 

He  says  they  were  carefully  mended 

For  Noah  to  wear  on  the  ark; 
But  though  they  are  shabby  and  dusty 

We  love  them  and  know  what  they're  for; 
And  Mother  will  spare  them  while  Daddy  can  wear 
them 

For  games  on  the  nursery  floor — 
The  old  fraying  trousers,  the  old  playing  trousers, 

That  romp  on  the  nursery  floor! 


—62— 


AT  HOME 


GROWING  UP 

SOME  day  I  shall  be  too  old  for  a  crib, 
Old  for  a  pinafore,  old  for  a  bib; 
Some  day — and  soon,  at  the  rate  that  I've  grown, 
I'll  have  a  proper  bed,  all  of  my  own. 

Some  day   I'll  have  an   allowance  from  Dad; 
I   won't   be   scolded  because  I   am  "bad"; 
Mother  will   let  me   cross   streets   unattended, 
The  holes  in  my  stockings  won't  have  to  be  mended. 

Some  day  I'll  ride  in  the  men's  smoking  car, 
And  look  at  Dad's  paper,  and  smell  his  cigar; 
And  I'll  have  a  razor  and  long-trouser  suit, 
And  then  I  will  learn  what  it  means  to  "commute." 

Some  day  I'll  eat  with  a  fork,  not  a  spoon; 
And   these  manly  changes  can't  happen  too  soon; 
But  one  thing  I'd  like  to  keep  up,  if  I  might — 
Have  Mother  to  tuck  in  my  blankets  at  night! 


—63— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


KISSING 

WHEN  Daddy's  had  his  morning  shave 
His  cheek  is  like  a  rose : 
No  skin  could  be  more  smooth  than  his 

Before  the  stubble  grows ; 
And  when  he  comes  out  from  his  bath, 

How  I  would  hate  to  miss 
The  clean  and  sleeky  fragrance  of 
My  Daddy's  morning  kiss ! 

But  when  the  evening  hours  come  round, 

My  Daddy's  cheek  has  grown 
All  rough  with  little  prickly  spikes, 

With  scratchy  bristle  sown; 
While  Mother's  face  is  always  soft, 

And  so,  at  night,  my  bliss 
Is  in  the  gentle  coolness  of 

My  Mother's  bedtime  kiss! 


—64— 


AT  HOME 


SONG  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

I'M  glad  our  house  is  a  little  house, 
Not  too  tall  nor  too  wide: 
I'm  glad  the  hovering  butterflies 
Feel  free  to  come  inside. 

Our  little  house  is  a  friendly  house* 

It  is  not  shy  or  vain ; 
It  gossips  with  the  talking  trees, 

And  makes  friends  with  the  rain. 

And  quick  leaves  cast  a  shimmer  of  green 

Against  our  whited  walls, 
And  in  the  phlox,  the  courteous  bees 

Are  paying  duty  calls. 


—65— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

NOT  long  ago  I  fell  in  love, 
But  unreturned  is  my  affection — • 
The  girl  that  I'm  enamored  of 
Pays  little  heed  in  my  direction. 

I  thought  I  knew  her  fairly  well: 
In  fact,  I'd  had  my  arm  around  her ; 

And  so  it's  hard  to  have  to  tell 

How  unresponsive  I  have  found  her. 

For,  though  she  is  not  frankly  rude, 

Her  manners  quite  the  wrong  way  rub  me: 

It  seems  to  me  ingratitude 

To  let  me  love  her — and  then  snub  me ! 

Though  I'm  considerate  and  fond, 

She  shows  no  gladness  when  she  spies  me — 

She  gazes  off  somewhere  beyond 
And  doesn't  even  recognise  me. 

Her  eyes,  so  candid,  calm  and  blue, 
Seem  asking  if  I  can  support  her 

In  the  style  appropriate  to 

A  lady  like  her  father's  daughter. 

—66— 


AT  HOME 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT— (continued) 

Well,  if  I  can't,  then  no  one  can — 
And  let  me  add  that  I  intend  to: 

She'll  never  know  another  man 
So  fit  for  her  to  be  a  friend  to. 

Not  love  me,  eh  ?     She  better  had ! 

By  Jove,  I'll  make  her  love  me  one  day ; 
For,  don't  you  see,  I  am  her  Dad, 

And  she'll  be  three  weeks  old  on  Sunday ! 


—67— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


AT  A  CHILD'S  BEDSIDE 

IS  there  one  who  has  not  smiled 
At  the  bedside  of  a  child? 
If  there  be  one,  he  has  missed 
Earth's  most  tender  eucharist. 

Eager  mind  that,  hour  by  hour, 
Opened,  blossomed  like  a  flower- 
To  what  secret  honeycomb 
Have     those     wondering     thoughts     gone 
home? 

Little  hands  and  eyes  set  free 
From  the  day's  immensity, 
Now  relaxed  and  innocent 
In  a  questionless  content. 

Sleep  then,  sleep  then,  little  guest ; 
We  will  house  thee  at  the  best. 
Tiptoe,  tiptoe,  on  the  floor- — 
Wake  not  God's  ambassador! 


—68— 


AT  HOME 


PARADISE  DEPRECATED 

WHEN  the  faucets  all  stop  dripping 
And  the  bathtub  never  leaks ; 
When  the  house  has  weatherstripping 

Against  the  blizzard  weeks; 
When  the  piping  never  freezes 

And  plumbers  cease  to  plumb, 
When  every  prospect  pleases 
And  we  clean  by  vacuum — 

When  wallpaper  never  blisters 

And  plaster  does  not  fall, 
When  larcenous  laundry  sisters 

Plunder  us  not  at  all; 
When  kitchen  maids  don't  mutter 

And  tablecloths  show  no  stain, 
And  husbands  never  utter 

A  single  word  profane — 

When  the  rugs  are  never  faded 

And  eggs  go  down  in  price; 
When  pantries   are  not  raided 

By  children  or  by  mice — 
Then  wives  will  never  be  weary, 

Commuters  will  all  grow  fat: 
But  heavens !  it  would  be  dreary 

To  live  in  a  house  like  that! 

—69— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


A  HALLOWE'EN  MEMORY 

DO  you  remember,  Heart's  Desire, 
The  night  when  Hallowe'en  first  came? 
The   newly   dedicated   fire, 

The  hearth  unsanctified  by  flame? 

How  anxiously  we  swept  the  bricks 

(How  tragic,  were  the  draught  not  right!) 

And  then  the  blaze  enwrapped  the  sticks 
And  filled  the  room  with  dancing  light. 

We  could  not  speak,  but  only  gaze, 
Nor  half  believe  what  we  had  seen — 

Our  home,  our  hearth,  our  golden  blaze, 
Our  cider  mugs,  our  Hallowe'en! 

And  then  a  thought  occurred  to  me — » 
We  ran  outside  with  sudden  shout 

And  looked  up  at  the  roof,  to  see 

Our  own  dear  smoke  come  drifting  out. 

And  of  all  man's  felicities 

The  very  subtlest  one,  say  I, 
Is  when  for  the  first  time  he  sees 

His  hearthfire  smoke  against  the  sky. 

—70— 


AT  HOME 


NO  ANSWER  EXPECTED 

WHO  bade  the  planets  veer  and  spin, 
And  loop  their  vast  festoons? 
Who  tipped  the  earth  and  let  her  roll 

Unerring  grooves  of  air? 
Who  ruled  the  awful  passages 

Of  suns  and  earths  and  moons, 
And  taught  them  how  to  pass  and  turn 
With  a  billion  miles  to  spare? 

Who  balanced  all  these  flying  weights 

With  poise  and  counterpoise? 
Who  tossed  these  whimsic  tricks  in  space 

Like  marbles  and  tin  cars? 
And  will  he,  weary  of  his  play, 

Fatigued  by  many  toys, 
Discard  his  complex  trinket  box 

And  shut  its  lid  of  stars? 


—71— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


AUTUMN  COLOURS 

THE  chestnut  trees  turned  yellow, 
The  oaks  like  sherry  browned, 
The  fir,  the  stubborn  fellow, 
Stayed  green  the  whole  year  round. 

But  O  the  bonny  maple 
.How  richly  he  does  shine! 
He  glows  against  the  sunset 
Like  ruddy  old  port  wine. 


—72— 


AT  HOME 


THE  LAST  CRICKET 

WHEN  the  bulb  of  the  moon  with  white 
fire  fills 

And  dead  leaves  crackle  under  the  feet, 

When  men  roll  kegs  to  the  cider  mills 

And  chestnuts  roast  on  every  street; 

When  the  night  sky  glows  like  a  hollow  shell 

Of  lustred  emerald  and  pearl, 
The  kilted  cricket  knows  too  well 

His  doom.     His  tiny  bagpipes  skirl. 

Quavering  under  the  polished  stars 
In  stubble,  thicket,  and  frosty  copse 

The  cricket  blows  a  few  choked  bars, 
And  puts  away  his  pipe — and  stops. 


—73— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

OUR  hearts  to-night  are  open  wide, 
The  grudge,  the  grief,  are  laid  aside: 
The  path  and  porch  are  swept  of  snow, 
The  doors  unlatched;  the  hearthstones  glow- 
No  visitor  can  be  denied. 

All  tender  human  homes  must  hide 
Some  wistfulness  beneath  their  pride: 
Compassionate  and  humble  grow 
Our  hearts  to-night. 

Let  empty  chair  and  cup  abide! 

Who   knows?     Some   well-remembered    stride 
May  come  as  once  so  long  ago — 
Then  welcome,  be  it  friend  or  foe! 

There  is  no  anger  can  divide 
Our  hearts  to-night. 


MEMORIES 


MEMORIES 


LUSITANIA 

PROUDEST  and  dearest 
Of  ships  from  the  Clyde, 
Who  has  forgotten  her, 
And  how  she  died? 

Green  slopes  of  Ireland 
Knelt  down  by  the  foam: 

To  the  green  lap  of  Ireland 
Our  dead  came  home. 

Warm  hearts  of  Ireland 
Brought  blanket  and  shawl, 

Straightened  them,  graved  them, 
Keened  for  them  alL 

Who  has  forgotten, 

Or  who  will  forget 
Those  pitiful  graves 

In  a  green  lap  set? 

—77— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  BIRTHDAY  REVIEW 

(May  6,  1918) 

SAID  the  Prince,  "This  is  my  birthday : 
Day  for  wasp-waist,  sword  and  stars ! 
Let  it  be  a  feast  and  mirth-day — 
Muster  my  Death's  Head  Hussars !" 

Southward  to  the  blue  Swiss  border, 
North  to  Flemish  sand-dunes  pale, 

Ran  the  Prince's  birthday  order, 
"Skull  and  Crossbones,  zu  Befehl!" 

Meanwhile,  he  put  on  his  frock  of 
Whalebone,  tinsel,  gilded  braids — 

Garments  that  had  borne  the  shock  of 
Many  glittering  parades. 

Clomb  the  tallest  of  his  stallions 

Ready  for  his  martial  stunt ; 
Waiting  for  his  proud  battalions, 

Playboy  of  the  Western  Front. 

To  the  great  reviewing  stand  he 

Cantered,  and  his  aides  deployed — » 

Angrily  the  royal  dandy 

Gazed  about  him,  much  annoyed. 

—78— 


MEMORIES 


THE  BIRTHDAY  REVIEW— (continued) 

"Where  are  all  my  men?"  he  thundered 
"Did  I  not  give  orders  strict?" 

Uniformed  attaches  wondered ; 
Heels  of  sub-lieutenants  clicked. 

Then,  from  trench  and  field  blood-weary, 
And  from  hamlets  black  with  scars, 

Came  dead  voices,  thin  and  eerie, 
Spoke  the  Prince's  lost  Hussars: 

"I  am  here  where  Verdun  held  us." 
"In  a  shattered  trench  I  lie." 

"I,  where  Joif re's  legions  felled  us." 
«I,  and  I,  and  I,  and  I." 

"I  am  where  the  great  guns  slew  us.'* 
"At  Bapaume  death  set  me  free." 

"I,  where  men  in  blue  went  through  us — 
They  no  braver  men  than  we." 

"I  am  here  where  Haig  defied  us." 
"I,  where  England  stood  at  bay.'* 

"British  dead  are  thick  beside  us, 
We  no  braver  men  than  they." 

"I,  on  Kemmel,  where  war  squanders 
All  that  honest  men  desire." 

"I  lie  here  in  muddy  Flanders 
On  a  trench's  clotted  wire." 

—79— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  BIRTHDAY  REVIEW— (continued) 

"Come,  Commander,  what  you  covet 
We  have  bought  you,  flesh  and  soul — 

This  is  war;  and  since  you  love  it, 
Join  us,  fill  our  muster-roll." 

On  the  broad  parade  ground,  waiting 
In  his  coat  of  braid  and  stars, 

Stood  the  Crown  Prince,  celebrating, 
Last  of  ihe  Death's  Head  Hussars. 


—80— 


MEMORIES 


MOONLIGHT 

MOONLIGHT  can  never  be  the  same, 
Shadow  and  shine  in  mystic  tress ; 
In  that  soft  glow,  with  bomb  and  flame 
They  wrecked  the  wards  of  gentleness. 

Borne  on  the  evening's  tender  breath, 
With  silver-dabbled  wings  they  came — * 

Tears  beyond  tears,  death  beyond  death; 
Moonlight  can  never  be  the  same. 


—81— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


READING  TERMINAL 

A  DINGY  vault  of  noise  and  steam — 
Vast  arches  and  a  scoop  of  sky; 
A  clang  and  rumble,  and  the  stream 
Of  smug  commuters  pressing  by — 
A  word — all  heads  were  turned — and  then: 
"A  troop  train  waiting" — "Drafted  men!" 

The  little  groups  were  clustered,  each 
To  watch  its  men  pass  out  of  sight; 

Brave  lips  that  shook  with  trivial  speech, 
Eyes  marred  by  secret  grief  all  night. 

"Well,  Jcid,  PR  wear  a  service  pin!'9 

"Send  us  a  postal  from  Berlin!" 

The  boys  were  game.     Shirt-sleeved,  they  smoked; 

Taunted  their  friends — "Your  turn  next  draft!" 
Eyes  swam.     Apart,  a  sister  choked; 

Her  bosom  shook  as  though  she  laughed. 
It  was  not  laughter.     "Gee,"  one  cries, 
"This  coal-gas,  honey,  stings  one's  eyes!" 

That  is  the  time  when  teeth  are  set! 

Those  sickened  hours,  thank  God,  are  few — * 
Thrust  out  from  one  life,  but  not  yet 

Redeemed  and  girded  in  the  new. 
—82— 


MEMORIES 


READING  TERMINAL— (continued) 

That  is  the  time  when  naught  will  serve 
But  each  man's  elemental  nerve. 

I  could  not  watch.     Kind  eyes  must  shut 
When  human  hearts  are  bare  and  raw; 

When  all  the  webs  of  life  are  cut 
One  does  not  dwell  on  what  one  saw. 

Yet  all  the  passions  of  our  race 

Vibrated  in  that  gloomy  place. 

A  dingy  vault  of  noise  and  steam — 
Vast  arches,  and  a  scoop  of  sky; 

But  that  great  shed  can  never  seem 
The  same  drab  place  as  I  pass  by — 

I'll  see  that  girl,  alone,  apart, 

Choked  by  her  leaping,  naked  heart. 

There  will  be  hearts  for  whom  that  place, 
That  crowded  arch  of  heat  and  trains, 

Will  be  a  shrine  for  some  lost  face, 
An  altar  of  old  joys  and  pains. 

Ah,  when  you  pass  those  gates  again 

Think,  God  be  with  you,  drafted  men. 

July,  1918. 


—83— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


AT  A  NEWSPAPER  BULLETIN  BOARD 

AMONG  the  crowd  on  Chestnut  street 
I  saw  her  reading  the  printed  sheet 
That  carries  the  lightninged  bulletins 
Of  mankind's  triumphs,  griefs  and  sins. 

Poor  old  lady!     Her  dress  long-worn, 
Her  little  black  bag  with  a  corner  torn, 
Her  tarnished  bonnet — all  showed  to  me 
No  armistice  with  poverty. 

Her  eyes,  with  passive,  sad  assent, 
Watched,  and  wondered  what  it  meant: 
The  pathos  of  that  puzzled  face 
Was  symbol  of  the  world's  disgrace. 

Tournai  is  evacuated — 
Kaiser  may  have  abdicated — a 
Fifteen  thousand  Austrians  taken — 
Enemy's  morale  is  shaken — 

Reichstag  sitting  rent  in  faction — * 
U.  S.  men  m  heavy  action — 
Belgian  villages  defiled — 
Casualty  list  compiled — 


MEMORIES 


AT   A   NEWSPAPER    BULLETIN   BOARD— (con 
tinued) 

All  these  she  read,  with  mind  inert, 
For  those  whom  life  has  greatly  hurt 
Seek  not  to  struggle  nor  explain: 
They  have  learnt  dumbness  under  pain. 

The  letters  on  the  printed  roll 

Moved  on.     She  stood,  with  patient  soul: 

The  Allies  land  more  men  in  Greece — 

Predictions  of  an  early  peace— 

I  saw  the  tremble  of  work-warped  hand: 
There  was  news  she  could  understand! 
O  men,  do  justice,  nor  disgrace 
The  hopefulness  of  that  poor  face ! 

October,  1918. 


85— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  ENGINEER 

THE  seven  steel-ribbed  coaches 
Draw  smoothly  to  the  shed, 
And  you  and  other  passengers 

Now  hurry  home  to  bed; 
You've  done  your  easy  hundred  miles 

In  ninety  minutes  clear — 
Then  thank  the  man  who  brought  you, 
The  old  grey  engineer. 

Your  hope,  your  love,  your  children, 

The  prayers  that  you  have  prayed, 
Lie  in  his  faithful  fingers 

On  trestle,  curve  and  grade; 
By  crossing,  draw  and  culvert 

His  leaping  engine  roars, 
[And  clear  as  altar  lamps  he  sees 

The  green-lit  semaphores. 

Unthanked  and  unremembered, 

He  holds  your  life  secure; 
His  service  does  not  falter, 

His  hand  and  eye  are  sure; 
A  thousand  tons  go  flashing 

Along  that  ribbon  slim; 
The  roar  of  his  tall  driving  wheels 

Is  very  like  a  hymn. 
—86— 


MEMORIES 


THE  ENGINEER— (continued) 

His  miracle  of  power 

Is  terrible  and  swift; 
Farewells  and  lovers'  meetings 

Are  equally  his  gift; 
In  starlight  or  in  snowstorm, 

A  priest  of  creed  austere, 
He  brings  you  home  in  safety- 

The  old  grey  engineer. 


—87— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


A 


THE  ISLAND 

SONG  for  England? 
Nay,  what  is  a  song  for  England? 


Our  hearts  go  by  green-cliff  ed  Kins  ale 

Among  the  gulls'  white  wings, 
Or  where,  on  Kentish  forelands  pale 

The  lighthouse  beacon  swings: 
Our  hearts   go   up  the  Mersey's   tide, 

Come  in  on  Suffolk  foam — 
The  blood  that  will  not  be  denied 

Moves  fast,  and  calls  us  home! 

Our  hearts  now  walk  a  secret  round 

On  many  a  Cotswold  hill, 
For  we  are  mixed  of  island  ground, 

The  island  draws  us  still: 
Our  hearts  may  pace  a  windy  turn 

Where  Sussex  downs  are  high, 
Or  watch  the  lights  of  London  burn, 

A  bonfire  in  the  sky! 

What  is  the  virtue  of  that  soil 
That  flings  her  strength  so  wide? 

Her  ancient   courage,  patient  toil, 
Her  stubborn  wordless  pride? 
—88— 


MEMORIES 


THE  ISLAND— (continued) 

A  little  land,  yet  loved  therein 

As  any  land  may  be, 
Rejoicing  in  her  discipline, 

The  salt  stress  of  the  sea. 

Our  hearts  shall  walk  a  Sherwood  track, 

Our  lips  taste  English  rain, 
We  thrill  to  see  the  Union  Jack 

Across  some  deep-sea  lane ; 
Though  all  the  world  be  of  rich  cost 

And  marvellous  with  worth, 
Yet  if  that  island  ground  were  lost 

How  empty  were  the  earth! 

A  song  for  England? 

Lo,  every  word  we  speak's  a  song  for  England. 


—89— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  TREES 

THE  poplar  is  a  French  tree, 
A  tall  and  laughing  wench  tree, 
A  slender  tree,  a  tender  tree, 
That  whispers  to  the  rain — 
An  easy,  breezy  flapper  tree, 
A  lithe  and  blithe  and  dapper  tree, 
A  girl  of  trees,  a  pearl  of  trees, 
Beside  the  shallow  Aisne. 

The  oak  is  a  British  tree, 
And  not  at  all  a  skittish  tree: 
A  rough  tree,  a  tough  tree, 
A  knotty  tree  to  bruise; 
A  drives-his-roots-in-deep  tree, 
A  what-I-find-I-keep  tree, 
A  mighty  tree,  a  Blighty  tree, 
A  tree  of  stubborn  thews. 

The  pine  tree  is  our  own  tree, 
A  grown  tree,  a  cone  tree, 
The  tree  to  face  a  bitter  wind, 
The  tree  for  mast  and  spar — 
A  mountain  tree,  a  fine  tree, 
A  fragrant  turpentine  tree, 
A  limber  tree,  a  timber  tree, 
And  resinous  with  tar  I 
—90— 


MEMORIES 


THE  TRUCE 

WHY  do  men  speak  with  bated  breath 
Of  this  strange  truce  that  they  call  Death? 
Death  is  not  Life's  antithesis, 
It  may  be  but  an  armistice. 
What  is  Death's  analogue  on  earth? 
It  is  not  Life,  but  rather  Birth. 
Men  fear  not  to  be  born ;  then  why 
Should  they  be  so  alarmed  to  die? 


—91— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


RUBBER  HEELS 


REQUIEM,  ON  DISCARDING  AN  OLD  SUIT 

FAREWELL,  a  long  farewell,  to  my  old  breeches ! 
Farewell,  sweet  shabby  coat  and  soup-stained 

vest! 
Farewell,  /dear     trousers,     patched     with     careful 

stitches ! 
The  good  old  suit,  my  wife  says,  has  "gone  West." 


These  trousers  which  (my  dear)  you  say  disgraced 

me — 
Which    "furnace    men    would    be    too    proud    to 

wear"— 

For  twelve  long  months  they  lovingly  embraced  me. 
When  shall  I  see  again  so  fine  a  pair? 


They  were  the  colour  of  tobacco  ashes 

(A  pipe  could  never  harm  such  pantaloons), 

And  they  were  camouflaged  with  stains  and  splashes. 
Fond  souvenir  of  feats  with  forks  and  spoons. 

—95— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


REQUIEM,  ON  DISCARDING  AN  OLD  SUIT— 
(continued) 

I  knew  by  heart  which  pockets  could  be  trusted, 
And  which  let  small  change  vanish  through  a  hole ; 

Though  ragged,  baggy,  wrinkled,  mud-encrusted, 
If  ever  breeks  do,  those  breeks  had  a  soul! 

And  now,  dolled  up  in  crass  new  coat  and  trousers, 
Ashamed  and  sad,  I  pace  the  lonely  street, 

Unhappy  in  my  finery,  for  now,  sirs, 

My  friends  will  never  know  me  when  we  meet! 


—96— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  PAYDAY 

TT^WAS  the  night  before  payday,  and  all  through 

JL        my  jeans 

I  hunted  in  vain  for  the  price  of  some  beans. 
Not  a  quarter  was  stirring,  not  even  a  jit; 
The  kale  was  off  duty,  milled  edges  had  quit. 
Forward,  turn  forward,  O  Time,  in  thy  flight — 
Make  it  to-morrow,  just  for  to-night! 


—97— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


AN  ECSTATIC  TRIBUTE 

SHE  does  not  whistle,  shout  or  hum, 
And  watch  the  clock  all  afternoon; 
She  does  not  chew  incessant  gum, 
She  does  her  job,  and  does  it  soon. 

She  keeps  the  calendar  correct, 
She  does  not  tangle  up  the  files; 

She  gives  the  boss  no  disrespect, 

Nor  plays  tag  in  the  stockroom  aisles. 

She  does  not  wear  ink  on  her  face, 
She  is  no  fount  of  endless  noise: 

Our  office  is  a  different  place — 
Try  office  girls  instead  of  boys ! 


—98— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  PROOFREADER  OF  THE 
ENCYCLOPEDIA  BRITANNICA 

MAJESTIC  tomes,  you  are  the  tomb 
Of  Aristides  Edward  Bloom, 
Who  laboured,  from  the  world  aloof. 
In  reading  every  page  of  proof. 

From  A  to  And,  from  Aus  to  Bis 
Enthusiasm  still  was  his; 
From  Cal  to  Cha,  from  Cha  to  Con 
His  soft-lead  pencil  still  went  on. 

But  reaching  volume  Fra  to  Gib, 
He  knew  at  length  that  he  was  sib 
To  Satan;  and  he  sold  his  soul 
To  reach  the  section  Pay  to  Pol. 

Then  Pol  to  Ree,  and  Shu  to  Sub 
He  staggered  on,  and  sought  a  pub. 
And  just  completing  Vet  to  Zym, 
The  motor  hearse  came  round  for  him. 

He  perished,  obstinately  brave: 
They  laid  the  Index  on  his  grave. 


—99— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


JOHN  J.  HARRISON 

JOHN  J.  HARRISON— peace  to  his  head!- 
Had  one  passion,  and  that  was  bed. 
Truly  he  counted  the  day  ill-spent 
Unless  by  nine  to  the  hay  he  went. 

My,  how  he  loved,  on  a  winter's  night, 
To  turn  down  the  coverlet,  tuck  up  tight, 
And  lie,  like  the  beautiful  girl  in  Keats, 
A  little  bit  goose-fleshed,  between  cold  sheets. 

Buried  by  blanket  and  padded  quilt, 
Many  a  castle  in  Spain  he  built; 
Nestled  and  snuggled  and  spread  his  toes, 
And  just  evaporated  into  repose. 

John  J.  Harrison  wisely  deemed 
That  sleep  can  never  be  overesteemed, 
And  a  twelve-hour  night,  on  good  wire  springs, 
Is  something  rare  in  the  lives  of  kings. 

The  passion  that  most  men  bestow 
On  golf  or  cards  or  tit-tat-toe, 
On  the  other  sex,  or  baseball  scores, 
J.  J.  H.  put  in  on  snores. 
—100— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


JOHN  J.  HARRISON— (continued) 

Oh!  that  man  made  sleep  a  career; 
He  would  lie  and  pound  his  ear 
Eighty  Ostermoor  hours  a  week — 
What  do  you  think  of  that  technique? 

I,  as  his  roommate,  had  often  chidden 
Him  for  being  so  bedridden: 
It  looked  to  me  like  a  certain  sign 
Of  horizontality  of  the  spine! 

John's  sleepmeter  would  mew  and  buzz, 
But  never  could  lure  him  out  of  the  fuzz. 
At  eight  o'clock,  when  to  work  I  went, 
John  would  register  great  content. 

"Sleep,"  he  said,  "appeals  to  me, 
So  I  take  it  seriously: 
I  could  slumber  forever,  old  pup — 
Sleep  and  sleep,  and  never  wake  up." 

He  was  a  man  I  so  admired 
That  I  helped  him  to  what  he  desired: 
What  he  wanted  was  what  he  got — • 
I  put  a  rattlesnake  in  his  cot. 


—101— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


BALLADE  OF  DROWSINESS 

1    HEARD  a  young  efficiency  expert 
Remark,  "A  man  should  never  sleep  by  day." 
When  I  heard  this  I  felt  a  trifle  hurt: 
A  nap  does  help  to  pass  the  time  away! 
Upon  the  filing  case  my  head  I  lay, 

Massage  my  soul  with  slumber  long  and  deep — 
I  must  have  been  compact  of  drowsy  clay, 
For  nothing  rests  me  quite  as  much  as  sleep. 

The  boss  has  sometimes  made  a  comment  curt, 

And  says  he  will  abbreviate  my  pay, 
Then  I  have  tried  to  make  a  valiant  spurt 
And  keep  the  dear  old  Lethargy  at  bay. 
No  use!     My  mind  is  heavy  as  a  dray, 

I  never  need  to  count  a  row  of  sheep. 
Upon  my  rolltop  desk  I  hit  the  hay, 

For  nothing  rests  me  quite  as  much  as  sleep. 

Stenographers  have  waited,  all  alert, 

To  hear  what  grave  dictation  I  might  say — 
Then  suddenly  my  form  becomes  inert 

And  I  collapse  (to  their  intense  dismay). 
Though  I  have  drunk  black  coffee  by  the  tray 

My  vital  tide  won't  rise  above  the  neap. 
Upon  my  spine  my  head  begins  to  sway — 
For  nothing  rests  me  quite  as  much  as  sleep. 

r— 102—    " 


RUBBER  HEELS 


BALLADE  OF  DROWSINESS— (continued) 

ENVOY 

No  pillow,  I  with  confidence  assert, 

Can  beat  three  phone  books  piled  up  in  a  heap. 
Siestas  should  be  public  and  overt, 

For  nothing  rests  me  quite  as  much  as  sleep. 


—103— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


BALLADE   OF  GETTING  ONE'S   FEET  WET- 
(continued) 

ENVOY 

This  is  the  thing  men  may  not  flee, 
The  thing  no  womenfolk  forget — 

Some  day  my  grandchild  will  decree 

"Good  gracious  me,  your  feet  are  wet !" 


—106— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


LINES  ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  NEW 
SMOKING  CAR 

LOVELY  brand-new  smoking  car 
Sacred  to  the  rich  cigar, 
Carry,  safely  and  with  speed, 
Happy  lovers  of  the  weed! 

Varnished,  shining,  fresh  and  clean, 
Caravan  of  nicotine, 
Lo,  we  wish  thee  long  career, 
Rolling  stock  without  a  peer! 

Welcome  to  suburban  traffic! 
Smokers  all  rejoice  seraphic; 
And  the  many  who  commute 
May  sit  down  with  their  cheroot. 

Lo,  how  fervent  is  our  praise 
If  thy  windows  we  can  raise! 


—107— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THE  ORPHAN  POEM 

A  POET  said,  "I'll  write  a  song  that  every  one 
will  sing, 
A  verse  with  just  the  human  note  that  carries  fast 

and  far — 
I  shall  be  known  forever  as  the  man  who  wrote  that 

thing; 
The  papers  will  reprint  it  from  here  to  Zanzibar !" 

He  wrote  the  piece,  "Those  Old  Blue  Jeans."     It 

made  a  ready  hit, 
And  in  the  mazes  of  the  press  the  song  began  to 

range ; 
But  some  one's  hasty  scissors  snipped  the  author's 

name  from  it, 

And    everywhere    he    saw    it,    it    was     credited 
"Exchange." 

Anthologies,  the  rural  press  and  patent  almanacs 
Reprinted   it;    and   humourists    revamped   it   for 

their  turns ; 
He  found  it  in  his  clippings,  which  were  piling  up 

in  stacks, 
Attributed   to   Riley,   Eugene   Field   and   Robby 

Burns. 
—108— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


THE  ORPHAN  POEM— (continued) 

He   tried  to   catch  the   orphan:   he  sought  in  his 

distress 
To  salt  its  tail  and  make  the  poem  wear  the  name 

it  ought; 
The  derelict  kept  wandering  on  the  ocean  of  the 

press — 

If  he  nailed  it  down  in  Portland,  it  popped  up  in 
Terre  Haute! 

He  wrote  to  all  the  editors  of  all  the  magazines 
Until   they   wished   the   wretched   man   were   laid 

beneath  the  ferns ; 
And  when  he  called  they'd  lock  the  door  and  say 

"Here's  Old  Blue  Jeans: 

The  idiot  who  thinks  he  wrote  that  piece  by  Robby 
Burns !" 

The  moral  of  the  ditty  is  just  this,  my  poet  friends — 
When  you  write  those  homely  poems,  put  your  name 
on  at  both  ends ! 


—109— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


GRACE  BEFORE  HOT  WEATHER 

(To  the  Weather  Man) 

FOR  what  we  surely  shall  receive, 
For  sultry  heat  and  lightning  prankful, 
For  storms  you  may  have  up  your  sleeve, 
We  pray  thee,  Boss,  to  make  us  thankful. 

July  and  August  come  apace, 

The  burning  days  that  vex  us  greatly: 

The  sky  will  show  no  April  face 

Such  as  our  hearts  rejoiced  in  lately. 

But  though  we  stew  with  beaded  brow, 
And  crave  the  self -destroying  pistol, 

We  shall  (we  hope)   remember  how 
You  gave  us  days  so  cool  and  crystal. 

Whate'er  you  send  to  wilt  and  grieve — 

Humidity  and  heat  together — 
We  thank  thee,  Boss,  for  this  reprieve, 

This  spell  of  mild  and  joyous  weather! 


—110— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


KITH  AND  KIN 

THE  Lisping  Lovers,  nice  young  things, 
Are  walking  arm  in  arm; 
But   chaperones  who  hear  them  talk 
Show  no  signs  of  alarm. 

Their  words   are  all  of  relatives 

And  wholly  without  sin: 
When  he  says,  "May  I  have  a  kith?" 

She  answers,  "Sure,  you  kin." 


—Ill— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


o 


TEN  LITTLE  COCKTAILS 

NE  little  cocktail  between  me  and  you — 
You  said:  "Another  one?"    Then  there  were 
two. 


Two  little  cocktails,  jolly  as  could  be: 

Along  came  Freddy,  and  then  there  were  three. 

Three  little  cocktails — "I  never  take  more." 
But  Freddy  insisted,  and  then  there  were  four. 

My  head  began  to  spin  and  buzz  like  a  hive, 
But  no  one  would  weaken,  and  so  there  were  five. 

Five  little  cocktails,  guaranteed  to  mix — 

"Let's  try  a  Clover  Club" — and  then  there  were  six. 

Six  little  cocktails  feel  just  like  heaven. 

"One  more  to  sober  up" — and  that  made  seven. 

Seven  little  cocktails — it  must  be  getting  late. 
"This  one's  on  me,  Bill" — and  then  there  were  eight. 

Eight  little  cocktails  dancing  down  your  spine  .  .  . 
"Bad  luck  to  quit  now,"  and  so  there  were  nine. 

Nine  little  cocktails  soon  become  ten — 
!!...???((($$$&£&£££)))—!! 
Ring  for  the  ambulance— Never  Again! 
—112— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE  LAUGHED 

WHEN  Shakespeare  laughed,  the 
fun  began! 

Even  the  tavern  barmaids  ran 
To  choke  in  secret,  and  unbent 
A  lace,  to  ease  their  merriment. 
The  Mermaid  rocked  to  hear  the  man. 

Then  Ben  his  aching  girth  would  span. 
And  roar  above  his  pasty  pan, 

"Avast  there,  Will,  for  I  am  spent I" 
When  Shakespeare  laughed. 

I'  faith,  let  him  be  grave  who  can 
When  Falstaff,  Puck  and  Caliban 

In  one  explosive  jest  are  blent. 

The  boatmen  on  the  river  lent 

An  ear  to  hear  the  mirthful  clan 

When  Shakespeare  laughed. 


—113— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


!TO  LUATH 

(Robert  Bums's  Dog) 

"Darling  Jean"  was  Jean  Armour,  a  "comely 
country  lass,"  whom  Burns  met  at  a  penny  wedding 
at  Mauchlme.  They  chanced  to  be  dancing  in  the 
same  quadrille  when  the  poet's  dog  sprang  to  his 
master  and  almost  upset  some  of  the  dancers.  Burns 
remarked  that  he  wished  he  could  get  any  of  the 
lasses  to  like  him  as  well  as  his  dog  did. 

Some  days  afterward,  Jean,  seeing  him  pass  as 
she  was  bleaching  clothes  on  the  village  green,  called 
to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  had  yet  got  any  of  the 
lapses  to  like  him  as  well  as  his  dog  did. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance  that 
coloured  all  of  Burns9s  Ufe. — NATHAN  HASKELL 
DOLE. 

WELL,  Luath,  man,  when  you  came  prancing 
All  glee  to  see  your  Robin  dancing, 
His  partner's  muslin  gown  mischancing 

You  leaped  for  joy! 

And  little  guessed  what  sweet  romancing 
You  caused,  my  boy! 

With  happy  bark,  that  moment  jolly, 
You  frisked  and  frolicked,  faithful  collie; 
His  other  dog,  old  melancholy, 
Was  put  to  flight — 
—114— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


TO  LUATH— (continued) 

But  what  a  tale  of  grief  and  folly 
You  wagged  that  night ! 

Ah,  Luath,  tyke,  your  bonny  master 
Whose  lyric  pulse  beat  ever  faster 
Each  time  he  saw  a  lass  and  passed  her 

His  breast  went  bang! 
In  many  a  woful  heart's  disaster 

He  felt  the  pang! 

Poor  Robin's  heart,  forever  burning, 

Forever  roving,  ranting,  yearning, 

From  you  that  heart  might  have  been  learning 

To  be  less  fickle ! 
Might  have  been  spared  so  many  a  turning 

And  grievous  prickle! 

Your  collie  heart  held  but  one  notion — 
When  Robbie  jigged  in  sprightly  motion 
You  ran  to  show  your  own  devotion 

And  gambolled  too, 
And  so  that  tempest  on  love's  ocean 

Was  due  to  you! 

Well,  it  is  ower  late  for  preaching 

And  hearts  are  aye  too  hot  for  teaching! 

When  Robin  with  his  eye  beseeching 

By  greenside  came, 
Jeanie — poor  lass — forgot  her  bleaching 

And  yours  the  blame ! 

—115— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


BALLADE  OF  AN  AMBROSIAL  EVENING 

I  KNOW  a  pub  where  I  can  chow  at  dusk 
On  lentil  soup,  grilled  kidneys  and  white  wine ; 
Take  coffee  in  the  garden,  with  a  rusk, 

And  smoke  black  leaf  tobacco  while  I  dine — 
Can  drink  liqueurs  until  my  seasoned  spine 

Begins  to  tingle  and  my  brain  to  whirr: 
Then  bring  a  candle,  landlord,  just  at  nine, 
And  have  the  sheets  perfumed  with  lavender ! 

Pour  me  a  claret  (Medoc,  sweet  as  musk!) 

Carve  me  a  juicy  cut  along  the  chine, 
Then  watch  me  ply  a  not  unwilling  tusk 
And  quaff  the  western  sun  down  his  decline. 
Perhaps  some  olives,  seasoned  well  in  brine, 

Our  pot  of  shandygaff,  if  you  prefer ; 
But,  landlord,  to  complete  the  fair  design, 
Pray  have  the  sheets  perfumed  with  lavender! 

No  heavy  vintage :  nothing  strong  or  brusque, — 
The  smooth  and  mellow  essence  of  the  vine — 
Perhaps  some  green  corn,  roasted  in  the  husk, 
And  omelette  singed  with  brandy — O  benign! 
Allegro  ma  non  troppo  is  my  line: 

The  graceful  mean  where  all  the  arts  concur 
To  make  one  long  ambrosial  evening  mine, 
And  then — O  sheets  perfumed  with  lavender! 
—116— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


BALLADE  OF  AN  AMBROSIAL  EVENING— (con 
tinued) 

ENVOY 

O  best  of  landlords !     Let  your  light  so  shine 
That  many  another  thirsty  wanderer 

May  (after  dinner)  all  his  cares  resign 

And  find  your  sheets  perfumed  with  lavender! 


—117— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


THOUGHTS  ON  REACHING  LAND 

1HAD  a  friend  whose  path  was  pain — 
Oppressed  by  all  the  cares  of  earth 
Life  gave  him  little  chance  to  drain 
His  secret  cisterns  of  rich  mirth. 


His  work  was  hasty,  harassed,  vexed: 
His  dreams  were  laid  aside,  perforce, 

Until — in  this  world,  or  the  next.  .  .  . 

(His  trade?  Newspaper  man,  of  course!) 

What  funded  wealth  of  tenderness, 
What  ingots  of  the  heart  and  mind 

He  must  uneasily  repress 

Beneath  the  rasping  daily  grind. 

But  now  and  then,  and  with  my  aid, 

For  fear  his  soul  be  wholly  lost, 
His  devoir  to  the  grape  he  paid 

To  call  soul  back,  at  any  cost! 

Then,  liberate  from  discipline, 

Undrugged  by  caution  and  control, 

Through  all  his  veins  came  flooding  in 
The  virtued  passion  of  his  soul! 
—118— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


THOUGHTS  ON  REACHING  LAND— (continued) 

His  spirit  bared,  and  felt  no  shame: 
With  holy  light  his  eyes  would  shine — 

See  Truth  her  acolyte  reclaim 
After  the  second  glass  of  wine! 

The  self  that  life  had  trodden  hard 

Aspired,  was  generous  and  free: 
The  glowing  heart  that  care  had  charred 

Grew  flame,  as  it  was  meant  to  be. 

A  pox  upon  the  canting  lot 

Who  call  the  glass  the  Devil's  shape— 
A  greater  pox  where'er  some  sot 

Defiles  the  honour  of  the  grape. 

Then  look  with  reverence  on  wine 

That  kindles  human  brains  uncouth— 
There  must  be  something  part  divine 
In  aught  that  brings  us  nearer  Truth! 

So — continently  skull  your  fumes 

(Here  let  our  little  sermon  end) 
And  bless  this  X-ray  that  illumes 

The  secret  bosom  of  your  friend ! 


—119— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


A  SYMPOSIUM 

THERE  was  a  Russian  novelist 
Whose  name  was  Solugubrious, 
The   reading   circles    took   him   up, 
(They'd  heard  he  was  salubrious.) 

The  women's  club  of  Cripple  Creek 

Soon  held  a  kind  of  seminar 
To  learn  just  what  his  message  was — 

You  know  what  bookworms  women  are. 

The  tea  went  round.  After  five  cups 
(You  should  have  seen  them  bury  tea) 

Dear  Mrs.  Brown  said  what  she  liked 
Was  the  great  man's  sincerity. 

Sweet  Mrs.  Jones  (how  free  she  was 

From  all  besetting  vanity) 
Declared  that  she  loved  even  more 

His  broad  and  deep  humanity. 

Good  Mrs.  Smith,  though  she  disclaimed 
All  thought  of  being  critical, 

Protested  that  she  found  his  work 
A  wee  bit  analytical. 

—120— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


A  SYMPOSIUM— (continued) 

But  Mrs.  Black,  the  President, 
Of  wisdom  found  the  pinnacle : 

She  said,  "Dear  me,  I  always  think 
Those  Russians  are  so  cynical" 

Well,  poor  old   Solugubrious, 

It's  true  that  they  had  heard  of  him; 

But  neither  Brown,  Jones,  Smith,  nor  Black 
Had  ever  read  a  word  of  him ! 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


A  BASEMENT  LOVE  SONG 

OLOVE  of  mine,  some  months  ago 
(Emotion  my  speech  hinders) 
Our  passion  lost  its  ruddy  glow 
And  flickered  out  in  cinders. 

And  yet,  old  dear,  that  winter  through 
(Before  our  paths  divided) 

Did  any  other  care  for  you 
As  ardently  as  I  did? 

But  now  resumes  love's  festival, 
Rekindling  ancient  embers — 

And  all  the  former  fever  shall 
Revivify  your  members. 

Again  I'll  woo  you,  and  will  deem 
You  worthy  of  your  wages, 

And,  as  a  gauge  of  my  esteem, 
Keep  steam  up  in  your  gauges. 

When  bitter  blasts  howl  wintrily 
I'll  hug  you  close.     My  love'll 

Be  large  with  chestnut,  egg  and  pea, 
And  buss  you  with  a  shovel ! 

—122— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


A  HYMN  OF  HATE  FOR 
HAY  FEVER 

OF  all  things  that  exasperate 
And  drive  us  on  to  dice  and  liquor; 
Of  all  the  ills  that  rouse  our  hate 

And  make  us  pray  that  death  come  quicker—3 
Of  all  the  plagues  that  harass  earth 
And  bid  us  hasten  to  bereave  her, 
There  is  no  pang  since  Adam's  birth 
Quite  so  degrading  as  hay  fever. 

Amid  abominable  throes, 

Contortions  utterly  displeasing, 
And  racked  by  these  incessant  blows 

And  jets  and  trumpetings  of  sneezing; 
Throughout  the  prickling,  roaring  fits, 

The  agonies  past  all  abating, 
We  echo  stiU  that  gifted  Fritz 

Who  taught  the  world  the  art  of  hating: 

We  sneeze  as  one  and  we  groan  as  one, 
We  hate  one  thmg  and  one  alone, — ; 
HAY  FEVER! 


-123— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


A  FREUDIAN  LULLABY 

LULLABY,  my  precious  child, 
Psychoanalyse  your  mind ! 
Wakeful  though  you  are,  and  wild, 

Let  us  see  if  you  can  find 
Motives  that  you  have  repressed 
Which  might  interrupt  your  rest? 

Have  you  unfulfilled  desires 
In  your  mystic  little  head? 

Dreams  of  toys  with  rubber  tire 
That  must  be  interpreted? 

Lullaby  and  tranquil  keep — • 

I  impose  the  will-to-sleep. 

Lullaby  and  close  your  eyes, 
For  your  nap  must  lie  enjoyed: 

I  will  psychoanalyse 

In  the  mode  of  Mr.  Freud — 

In  unconsciousness  immersed, 

Maybe  I  shall  slumber  first ! 


—124— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


* 


SYNTHETIC  POEMS 


Revery 


I  ALWAYS  intended  to  be 
A  stern  silent  man 
VTith  a  level,  piercing  gaze — 
A  man  before  whom 
Even  the  bartender  would  quail. 
But  somehow  I  am  a  little  late 
In   getting   started. 

Warning 

I  have  said  it  before: 

I  shall  say  it  again: 

Look  out  for  the  theories, 

For  the  facts 

Can  take  care  of  themselves. 

Uneasiness 

Sometimes  when  I  am  writing  poetry 

I  have  an  uncomfortable  feeling 

That  I  am  about  to  be 

Interrupted 

By  a  flash  of  prose. 

—125— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


SYNTHETIC  POEMS— (continued) 

Pessimism 

I  always  ask 

At  least  three  trainmen 

If  this  is  the  right  train  for  where  I  am  going. 

Even  then, 

I  hardly  believe  them. 

What,  Indeed? 

A  girl  with  brown  eyes 
Said  to  n 

"What's  the  Big  Idea?" 
And  to  tell  you  the  truth 
I  hardly  know. 

Catt  for  Volunteers 

The  Truth  is  greatly  improved 
By  not  being  uttered. 
Assist  in  this  great  work! 

Lack  of  Balance 

The  Prune  Exchange  Bank 
Refused  my  account 
Because  I  tried  to  deposit 
A  dew-spangled  cobweb 
And  a  post-dated  sunset. 
—126— 


RUBBER  HEELS 


ABDICATION 

THERE  are  too  many  poets :  competition 
Is  hot  and  heavy  in  the  rhyming  trade, 
And  (to  be  frank)  I  have  a  dark  suspicion 

That  after  all  the  work  is  underpaid. 
And  I  have  always  yearned  to  be  a  grocer 

And  sell  the  freshest  eggs  were  ever  henned 
Or  say  to  fretful  customers,  Oh  no,  sir, 

That  brand  we  do  not  care  to  recommend! 

So  I  shall  sell  my  rhyming  dictionary, 

And  in  some  little  neat  suburban  block 
Between  a  Chinese  laundry  and  a  dairy 

I'll  buy  a  store  and  there  display  my  stock. 
The  window  will  be  full  of  jams  and  cocoa, 

And  there  will  be  a  glass  case  of  cigars, 
And  canisters  of  spice  from  Orinoco, 

Prunes,  gingerbread,  and  Castile  soap  in  bars, 

Forgetful  of  my  literary  vices, 

I'll  revel  in  my  barrels,  tins,  and  kegs ; 
If  editors  should  come,  I'll  raise  my  prices 

And  sell  them  uncertificated  eggs. 
But  comes  the  noble  critic  who,  reviewing 

My  verses,  was  so  generous  to  me, 
Whate'er  he  asks — yea,  sugar,  citron,  bluing, 

Tea,  tripe  or  olives — he  shall  have  it  free! 

—127— 


THE  ROCKING  HORSE 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION 

WHEN  I  read  the  poems  of  greater  bardsa 
Their  music,  grace  and  wit, 
Their  deeply  blended  sound  and  sense, 

The  melody  they  have  writ, 
Then  I  am  smitten  with  sharp  chagrin 

And  envy  chills  my  ink : 
Why  can't  I  think  the  beautiful  thoughts 

The  other  poets  think? 
Why  is  my  Muse  so  weak  of  wing, 

My  bag  of  rhymes  so  light? 
Why  can't  I  write  the  thundering  stuff 

The  other  poets  write? 


THE   END 


—128— 


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The  rocking  horse. 


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